I had a whale of a time in the Renaissance dining room

It's not every day that you bite into a mock Ferrero Rocher made of foie gras
- or eat whale vomit, writes Lucy Jones.

'You've got a bit of gold on your lip," whispered the food writer to me. It wasn't the kind of remark you hear every day, but then it's not every day that you bite into a mock Ferrero Rocher made of meat: duck foie gras, to be precise, studded with caramelised almond and rolled in gold leaf.

Whale vomit is surprisingly delicious

The occasion was a trip through The Complete History of Food, a gastronomic event organised by the Old Etonian "jelly-mongers", Bompas and Parr. For this week only, they have transformed a grand mansion in Belgravia into a maze of themed culinary areas: Contemporary, TV Dinner, Renaissance and so on. Heston, eat your heart out.

We started in the Medieval zone, balancing on a gang-plank above a flooded banqueting hall (to represent the Thames). On the bar, leeches and eels wriggled in their jars; behind it stood a cocktail "mixologist", who diagnosed us according to the theory of the humours. Apparently, I am "phlegmatic", so to raise my calm and sluggish temperament, I was prescribed an apricot martini with truffle and porcini-dusted popcorn on the side. Beside me, the aristocratic foodie Tom Parker-Bowles was being dosed with spiced mead and celery bitters to alleviate his "sanguine" nature. I think I preferred the sound of mine.

With our humours restored, we headed to the present-day for the "Rocher d'Or" (made by Alexis Gauthier, a Michelin-starred chef). Next stop was the Scratch 'n' Sniff TV dinner of chicken, chips, peas and strawberry pudding, which you were meant to work off in a bouncy castle, shaped like a stomach (complete with inflatable spleen, inflatable liver, etc). I abstained – not out of squeamishness, but because next up was the main course and, to my mind, the chef d'oeuvre.

This was the Victorian room, designed as a tribute to one of London's most famous dinners, held on December 31, 1853. The exotic and well-lubricated feast took place in Crystal Palace, where an inventive pair of gentlemen created a life-size model of an Iguanodon, and invited 22 friends to see in the New Year while sitting inside it. Bompas and Parr had recreated the spectacle: inside the enormous beast, our gasps turned to awed silence as we savoured a melt-in-the mouth duck confit with puy lentils, beetroot and black champagne sauce.

Sated, we ended the evening in the Renaissance banqueting house. Walled with stunning pastel-coloured sugar sculptures, it felt like Wonderland. The pudding was equally spectacular: candied orange, iris jellies and ambergris posset. That's right – whale vomit. And guess what? It was delicious.

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Whoopi Goldberg risked ridicule when she stood up for Mel Gibson, after the tapes of his violent phone calls to his ex-girlfriend were released this week. Apparently, telling a woman that "if you get raped by a pack of n------, it will be your fault" doesn't make him a racist – just a "bonehead".

It reminded me of her extraordinarily stupid defence of Roman Polanski, on the grounds that his assault on an intoxicated 13-year-old girl "wasn't rape-rape". I couldn't help wondering what exactly Goldberg would find offensive – and a quick search showed that her ire was once directed at Howard Stern, the American shock jock, after he accused Gabourey Sidibe of being "the size of a planet". Is she the only person in the world who thinks being rude about a young actress is worse than child rape or racism?

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Levi Johnston is a brave man: he's signed up for a lifetime with Sarah Palin as his mother-in-law. Not only that, but he and his fiancée Bristol announced their engagement (in a magazine) without telling Ma Palin first.

The war between Johnston and his future mother-in-law has gripped the media: his attempt to humiliate her in a Vanity Fair exposé after he and Bristol split up, her withering remarks after he posed naked for Playgirl, his allusions to dark family secrets, the threats of a bean-spilling book, the eventual reconciliation with Bristol. Boy, Christmas in Wasilla will be a riot.